UC Writer's Guild Special: Meeting in Amman
by His Divine Shadow
Summary: A simple mission in Amman City leads ace pilot Sylvie Gressier into the heart of a conspiracy that may lead to another Delaz. Collaboration between Zinegata, HDS and Redcomet for this 'missing link' one-shot piece.


**An Abyssal Lasombre Production   
  
In cooperation with Forgotten Fleet and Man in the Hat Studios**   
  
Presents:   
  
**UC Fanfic Guild Special: Meeting in Amman   
  
Von Braun, Luna, Sol System   
January 17, 0085**   
  
Cigarette smoke in the stale, recycled air was the only sign of active life in the interrogation room of the 121st Precinct Headquarters, Von Braun Internal Security Service. Most days, two of the three people in the room would not have even noticed the quality of the air, filtered and re-ventilated throughout the Lunar metropolis endlessly to grant the human colonial population a semblance of Earth's life-sustaining atmosphere, but today was different. Today, the cigarette smoke was not a sign of a bad recycler or the hydroponics/botanicals not being able to keep up with the human citizens' respiratory needs. It was a sign of victory, and the third person in the room was in way too deep a layer of shit to think that his troubles would disappear into the vents along with the wisps of fluorocarbons he exhaled.   
  
The skell was one Nick Trimble, a low-level docker full-time for industrial and high-tech powerhouse Anaheim Electronics' Von Braun branch. He spent most of his days working nine-to-five in the docking ring of the warehouse district, the place where things came and went. There were a million others just like him "up there", doing their thing to keep the economy of one of Luna's larger multi-tiered cities going, but not all of them had the part-time job that Mr. Trimble had. Mr. Trimble was one of those people infected with the disease known as "personal greed", and this time the symptoms had cost him. Now he sat at the table, nervously smoking, hands trembling, and sweating under the twin gazes of the other two people.   
  
The other persons occupying the room, mostly silent and uncannily still, were not sweating at all. They knew they had Mr. Trimble dead to rights, and they knew that he knew it, too. The interrogation hadn't even begun yet, and the guy was squirming like a Zavi on Hell's pitchforks. But their faces, one male and one female, betrayed none of their delight at this break: ISS specialized in hiring people with inborn poker faces and no senses of humor that weren't buried in ten tons of cynicism that only years working to uphold the law in Von Braun could build on a person. ISS did not have an easy job. Von Braun boasted one of the highest crime rates in the Earth Sphere, and the graft and corruption went straight to the top. More than one ISS agent, deciding to "make a difference", had ended up in a grave out in Mare Serenitatis for delving too deep in the mire. But every so often they caught a fish that was good enough to not have to throw back. The formation of the Titans had driven most of the really big operators underground (as deep as the levels that Von Braun could boast), and the people in charge with big pockets kept their noses clean these days, but business was business and had to keep going, Titans or no. These days, smuggling was the big boys' game, and it was unto the smugglers that ISS turned their attentions. The sting on the docks happened earlier this morning, but the only thing they'd managed to net for sure was Nick Trimble, with a pocketful of illicit gold and a clipboard of some of Anaheim's more dangerous toys in the warehouses.   
  
The male ISS agent finally moved after ten minutes of silent staring, pulling out the chair opposite Mr. Trimble with a _screech_ of metal legs on metal floor, and then sat down. That was the cue for the game to begin. "You're in deep doo-doo, Nick."   
  
The man glared sullenly, eyes red, and said nothing. The female agent casually strolled to a point just behind Trimble's right shoulder, remaining in his peripheral vision, while her partner rifled through some plastic flimsies on his own clipboard.   
  
"'Smuggling, espionage, intent to sell illegal industrial information to outside sources, possession of contraband bullion'. We can put you away for a real long time, Nick, and we don't even have to ask you a question." The agent slapped down the clipboard, and the skell jumped a bit at the noise.   
  
The female agent leaned closer. "But it doesn't have to be that way, Nick. We know you're just the go-to guy, not the buyer, so we're going to make this easier on you if you're willing to have it easy."   
  
"You want it easy, don't you, Nick? We've gone and said you're not the guy we want, so you've got your chance to walk away from all this right now. All you've got to do-"   
  
"-Is tell us who the buyer is. That's easy enough, isn't it?" finished the female.   
  
Trimble took a long drag from the cigarette, then blew smoke at the male agent. "You fucking cops fucked up. I'm just the guy who got the list. You hit too soon, and got the wrong fucking guy on top of it."   
  
"Nick," sighed the male agent, "you're not getting it, are you? All we want is a name."   
  
"Who the guy works for would be nice, too, since no one wants hardware like what's on that list unless they plan on starting something naughty." The female fished another smoke out and tossed it on the table in front of Trimble.   
  
"And if we can't get them, we'll make certain we keep YOU. You know what Von Braun's Slam is like, don't you, Nick? Enough of your friends have been to the Bootie House to tell you the stories. Big roughnecks and miners making you be their sweet bitch, just for protection or for their own fun. Really nasty people waiting for a short-shank like you, Nick. You're missing enough teeth already to be a real hot commodity down there."   
  
"We don't want to see you end up like that, Nick," said the female, "eating some man-meat for a pack of smokes or to keep your pudding at the chow line. You did good work out on the docks, and we'd like to put you back there to keep doing your work."   
  
"Isn't this the part where I'm s'posed to have a lawyer or something?" Nick flicked ash on the tabletop in front of him.   
  
"Yeah, you can have a lawyer, but then we can't do anything for you." The man's face still did not change expression. Besides, ISS technically wasn't the cops.   
  
"Better to be back at work than being stretched and filled out like a liquor ration requisition form, isn't it, Nick?" Unlike her counterpart, the female grinned like a shark. Her presence off of Trimble's right shoulder did nothing to alleviate his anxiety, and she knew it.   
  
"So who is it? Delaz Fleet survivors? Old Zeon holdouts? Some indy contractor or collector looking to score War material for his museum on Side 6?"   
  
"Look," said Trimble, slapping both hands on the table just to shut these two cops the hell up, "it's not like that at all, oh-fucking-kay?!? I told you, I just got the list, all right? I've never met the asshole that's the buyer, that was another guy's job, okay? Shit, you cops are dumb!"   
  
The two agents looked at each other for a moment, then back at Trimble. "You've got a _cell_ organization?" asked the male, voice cold as the Lunar atmosphere on the dark side.   
  
The female actually looked a little angry now. "Who's your contact, Nick? Who are the other members?"   
  
"Give us a name right now, Nick, or we give you over to the Titans to get worked over real good. Tell us now, and you never have to talk to a Black Dog about anything." 'Black Dog' was the ISS nickname for the Titans, who could run roughshod over anything and anyone they wanted and not catch flak for it, and when they got ahold of your ankle they never let go until they had chewed through your whole leg mercilessly.   
  
The skell's eyebrows elevated. "You wouldn't! You hate them fuckers worse 'n me!"   
  
"Then quit playing fuck-around and spill it, Nick, or we're not going to have much choice. If you won't talk to us, you'll damn skippy talk to them."   
  
"You'll squeal like a schoolgirl after the first five minutes of a chemical interrogation, and if you're lucky they won't leave you a drooling mess to face the next fifty years as. They might even just shoot you if you're especially forthcoming." For a long minute, there was silence again, with only the sounds of breathing and the buzz of the single halogen bulb interrupting the quiet.   
  
Trimble thought for a moment. The extra pay had been incredibly good, just to get some warehouse registries for Anaheim's Von Braun warehouses, the ones from when they were Zeonic Corp. Gold was a high-demand item on Luna, and with it, you could make miracles happen, especially in the thriving black market. When he had been approached by one of his supervisors, Trimble had almost fainted at the offer, but he'd rather be free and working than rich and in the Slam. Besides, he hadn't signed a contract, and he was probably so far down the ladder of how high this went that it wouldn't matter anyway. He looked at the stone faces of the two ISS agents, then made his decision. Trimble held out the second cigarette, asking for a light. "Same deal as before? I tell you who the others are, you let me walk, no bullshit?"   
  
The female flicked a butane lighter. "No bullshit."   
  
And Trimble told them. Two hours later, there were another three people in the interrogation room.   
  
**Von Braun, Luna, Sol System   
January 18, 0085**   
  
"It was downright pleasant of you to come see us this early in the morning, Colonel," commented ISS section chief Fred Gallagher to his guest, who settled into her chair with the ease of someone used to sitting in more uncomfortable ones. Then again, only fools or those tired of living ever thought that Titans Lt. Col. Natalie Dolvich hadn't earned her stripes the hard way. The Titans did not hire slackers or sycophants . . .too often.   
  
"Comes with the territory, Agent Gallagher. I prefer to have the Titans and ISS on the same page. Makes for a more comradely work environment." She smiled slightly at him and waited for the reason why she was in this dingy office in a dingy building with a dingy man with a dingy job. ISS was a disease-ridden nest of traitors and con artists to her, and most of them weren't worth their weight in moon dust, but they were occasionally useful. It was pure curiosity that had brought her here anyway, because ISS went out of their way to avoid asking the Titans (or anyone else, for that matter) for favors or assistance. This meeting was a spontaneous surprise to an otherwise boring day.   
  
"I'm all for comradeship, Colonel Dolvich," Gallagher replied, smiling as well. He did not like this Titan bitch any more than he would have liked waking up beside a nest of angry bees. Since her arrival in Von Braun, more people had disappeared than normal, often during the night with no sign of their passing. Gallagher suspected that the Titans were stretching the limits of their plenipotentiary powers, and he didn't like when folks with strong ties in the Lunar colony vanished without a trace for no apparent reason, never to be heard from again. There was no secret that Titans hunted former Zeons mercilessly, and to them any Spacenoid was a former Zeon with a furlough.   
  
The Titan smiled, her face lightening considerably. "Then be a comrade and tell me what I can do for you today, Agent Gallagher."   
  
The big man leaned back in his swivel chair, crossing his fingers over his expanding belly. "Yesterday morning, we ran a sting on the docks, code-named Kingfisher. This was something we'd been working on for month, since the smugglers were getting restless and feisty again, and we thought we could bag a few choice specimens."   
  
"Mmm-hmmm," nodded Natalie, attentive.   
  
Gallagher grinned. "We got a couple of lightweights, but one of them . . ." he paused and pushed a touch button, then reached into a desk drawer and withdrew an evidence bag, " . . .had these on him. Take a gander if you'd be so kind."   
  
The bag hit his desk with a heavy _thunk_, punctuated by a lighter _clink_ that emanated from the inside. Intrigued, Natalie picked the bag up. It was heavier than she'd thought it would be. When she opened it, she knew why.   
  
Gallagher answered her unspoken question. "Gold bullion. 99.98% pure, according to the lab, divided into .2268 kilogram bars. Exactly .2268 kilograms."   
  
Natalie hefted the bag. "About three kilos in here, I'd say." It was rough to guess, the gravity (or lack thereof) on Luna making weights deceptive.   
  
"Three and a half, worth about fifty grand in credits on the black market here."   
  
"Too bad you're not bribing me," Natalie replied casually, returning the bag to the desk and opening it, removing a sheet of plastic-wrapped biodegradable flimsy, "and turning over this shopping list with all the keys attached along with it. This is high-grade classic Anaheim firepower."   
  
Gallagher nodded. "That's why I called you here. We caught a docker named Nick Trimble with this stuff in his possession. Turns out he's the list guy in a cell setup, running hardware out of Anaheim's Von Braun storage facility."   
  
Natalie's eyes narrowed over the rim of the flimsy she was perusing. "Zeon?" _Not again, not another Delaz. . .what would it cost me-us-this time? _  
  
"We don't know. Trimble gave us the name of the second guy, who we brought in. He gave us the name of the third guy, who's supposed to be the one delivering the list to the buyer."   
  
After a moment, Natalie put the flimsy back into the evidence bag. "I'll assume you're after the buyer, not the goons. That'd be a nice headline in the _Luna Times for your ISS people. Who's the bait?"   
  
"Oh, the third guy has no idea he's been ID'd. The problem is that the second guy told us where the meet is, and it's not within ISS jurisdiction. That's why you're here in my office."   
  
"Oh-ho," Natalie tapped a finger on the tip of her nose. "So where's the meet?"   
  
"Amman City." Gallagher actually looked embarrassed to be asking. "Can you get someone to tail the third cell member to Amman, then bring in the buyer?"   
  
"That's all you want done?" Natalie was waiting for the part with the payoff. Titans didn't do jobs for ISS for free or for fun. If Gallagher wanted their assets in use for this, then he was going to have to put out for the privilege, plain and simple.   
  
"That'd be a start. It's real straightforward: just follow along until the meet. The second guy plead out and is most definitely our bitch. We've got him playing mule for the third. The third guy receives the list later today and leaves for Amman by monorail tomorrow morning. Of course, the list he's getting is a fake one, but he doesn't know that. The meet goes down, your guy jumps and grabs them both in the act, and they get extradicted back here to Von Braun to be slow-broiled until we find out how deep this goes. Standard counterterror trace tactic, couldn't be easier if we tried." __Which is why you don't deserve a damn thing, Black Dog, was what Gallagher's smile didn't speak aloud.   
  
_I'm going to have to spell it out for this idiot. _Fingers steepled in front of her nose, Natalie smiled. "Entice me."   
  
  
  
Two hours later, there was a subtle knock on an unadorned door in the inauspicious building that was Titans HQ, Von Braun. The person sitting in the room was at the desk, hands idly squeezing the life out of a stress ball that was shaped like the Haro that all the kids loved these days, her eyes closed as if she were in pain. At the knock, they opened to barest slits, but aside from her hands, she did not move or respond. The knock sounded again, and she stopped crushing the life out of the Haro stress ball as her subconscious retreated and her conscious took control, recognizing the style of the knocking with a basic familiarity. Her eyes opened fully, and she put the stress ball back onto her mostly-empty desk as she took a deep breath.   
  
The knock came a third time, and she swiveled the chair around and came to her feet in a movement so smooth it would have made professional athletes jealous. She, however, did not consider the grace in how she rose from the chair; to her, it was simply efficiency of movement, not a technique of style. The only pride she took in herself was that she remained in top physical form to perform her function. Anything else just got in the way, and Sylvie Gressier had little tolerance for that which deterred anything in her too-turbulent excuse for a life.   
  
She knew who was at the door, of course, even before it opened to reveal Natalie Dolvich. She was the only person who visited on a regular basis. Most of the other Titans disdained the "Feddie regular" in their midst, preferring to give Sylvie a wide berth in person and whisper about her in private; in keeping with symmetry, the Federation personnel of Von Braun also avoided her, mostly because of her "evil" relationship with Lt. Col. Dolvich and the elitist Titans, but also because a few of them had been around when she earned her reputation as a mobile suit pilot. This made Sylvie's universe seemingly very lonely. She would have been more relieved had that been so.   
  
She acknowledged Natalie's entry with a barely perceptible nod of the head, and as she busied herself with the coffeepot she listened to the slap of a file folder on the lamp stand beside the desk and the Titan seat herself with casual familiarity in "her" chair. Sylvie's spine tensed as an unconscious reaction: Natalie never sat in that chair unless the visit wasn't personal. That meant business, and Sylvie began to prepare herself in anticipation for the new task.   
  
And inside her, a small voice, mostly unheard, cried out: __No, please, not again!   
  
Aloud, she asked a question to her visitor/friend/commander: "Mocha or french vanilla cappuccino?" The question was broached with all the emotion of a stock ticker scrolling numbers across a screen.   
  
Natalie considered for a brief instant. "Mocha. It's a business day."   
  
Sylvie set the coffee going, then turned to face Natalie, face hard as agate but not deducting from her beauty in any discernible measure except around her eyes, which were also flint hard. She glided across the room, taking her seat across from Natalie, her unconscious grace in the lower gravity environment enough to make Natalie want to squirm. She smiled at the woman across from her, who was not only her best field operative but her best friend as well. Nothing was said for some time, the two content to simply be sharing the same space with the rest of the screaming world left outside the door for just a few minutes.   
  
At least, that was how it felt to Natalie. For Sylvie, every continuous moment alive was a shard of glass dragged across her soul. After all, killing machines did not have to be comfortable, and Sylvie was born to the role.   
  
The coffeemaker _dinged_ its signal that its job was complete, and after they had each settled in with a mug, it was time for conversation.   
  
"It's a good thing you've finally learned to knock, Natalie," commented Sylvie abruptly, "I almost threw that Haro at you."   
  
The Titan officer shrugged. "I'd have ducked."   
  
"I would've followed it up with the Luna-Ti paperweight."   
  
"And I would've chucked it right back at you, once I'd gotten up." Natalie sipped from her mug once more before setting it down. "You know why I'm here."   
  
Sylvie nodded, the ambience of the room growing darker. "Another job."   
  
"This one is special, Sylvie. Special enough that I have to send you."   
  
_Special for what reason: the danger, or the prize?_ "Specifics, please."   
  
Natalie brushed a hand through her hair in what seemed like an affectation of preening. "I got a call from ISS today, asking me to pay them a visit."   
  
Sylvie allowed a small grin to form on her face; Natalie was permitted to see such things. The Titan caught the expression and quirked an eyebrow. "What was _that_ about?"   
  
"I was just thinking how great a 'team' you and Agent Gallagher would make." Sylvie's face remained sad as ever, even as she said it, but the humor was apparent anyway.   
  
Natalie was ready for that, though her mind wandered for a moment as she remembered a certain Brit friend of hers who was currently on assignment. "I'd take him up on it, except I already set him up for you to snag."   
  
Sylvie snorted at that thought. "I'll do my own plumbing, thanks." __As if anyone could plug the hole that losing Max left in my heart...   
  
Natalie grinned evilly. "I didn't know you needed the old pipes cleaned, Captain."   
  
If not for her awesome physical control, Sylvie would have spat mocha coffee on her 'boss'. Instead, she just sipped and let the barb slide off her like a claw on a pane of glass.   
  
The Titan Colonel leaned forward in her seat, her 'no-bullshit' posture. "There's a spy network in Anaheim. ISS got real lucky and caught the tail end of it yesterday. They've been following the chain, but it extends beyond Von Braun. They've asked us to keep tracing the line to the top."   
  
"So? What's the contraband?"   
  
Natalie passed the file folder over to her subordinate, who took one look at the copy of the buyer's list and visibly bristled. Sylvie fixed Natalie with an unwavering stare.   
  
Natalie's face bore no amusement, either. "Mobile suits. Weaponry. Ammunition. All the fixings for armed insurrection. A very big, very expensive buy."   
  
"Who?" snarled Sylvie. _How many more times, Ming Chow? How many more times will you flaunt Delaz at me? How many more ghosts will you send to haunt me? Aren't Shang---and Max---enough for a thousand lifetimes? _  
  
"We don't know. The two members of the cell that ISS brought in aren't close enough to the buyer to know. But you can probably guess some of the more likely candidates for the job." Natalie picked up her mug again. "Former Zeon not happy with the way things are, Spacenoid 'freedom fighters', some crackpot with a statement to make. Some of the things we've done to preserve the peace in Space have made people suspect the motives of the Titans as a whole, and they may be looking to lash out at whoever they can get to."   
  
Sylvie needed no further convincing. Any and all of those reasons were enough to warrant the attention of the 'Valkyrie of Revo'. __Please let it be Ming. I've not asked You for anything since Max died, God, but if You grant me this, I'll gladly accept a second eternity in Hell. "Mission parameters."   
  
Natalie almost winced. She still had a time dealing with some of Sylvie's more militant quirks. "The third man will be delivering a phony list to someone we presume is either the buyer or the next person on the cell chain. The meeting is tomorrow at a location in Amman City. I want you to trail the third man and grab them both when they meet. I need them alive, Sylvie, no matter who it is."   
  
Sylvie glared harshly at her friend, but the Colonel refused to budge. "__Alive. I want to know how deep this goes, and if we trace the chain all the way up, then not only do we break up what could be the biggest illegal arms buy since the __Gerbera Tetra, but we might just make it back to Earthside in spite of our spotty records."   
  
"Not to mention every other asshole. I understand." Sylvie didn't have to like it; she just had to do it.   
  
"Civilian clothes, Sylvie, and keep a very low profile. We want the bastard who's there to retrieve the list, even if he's not the buyer, but we also don't want to scare off the rest of them. "   
  
Sylvie drained her mug of lukewarm mocha, then stood. "Sounds like a fun little gig. When do I leave?"   
  
Natalie checked her watch. "We'll place you when the stakeout team gives us the word that the mark is en route to the monorail. Then we put you on the same car and you're on your own from there. We've got very little presence in Amman, so you're not going to have a lot of resources outside of your own intuition and skills, but you should have no problems. You're a mean bitch when you want to be."   
  
Sylvie saw the Colonel hide a grin behind her coffee mug and grimaced. "Without the pithy commentary, please, Natalie."   
  
"Sorry, just didn't want to bore you any more than I already have. You will have a contact with Anaheim, though, someone we can trust. He's a test pilot with Anaheim, and while I personally don't know him, he's a mutual acquaintance of a mutual acquaintance. Honestly, I wouldn't approach him unless it was an absolute emergency, but he'll be at their Amman site while you're there."   
  
"I doubt his services will be required." Lunarians didn't particularly like Zeon or Federation personnel, so trustworthiness was hard to come by.   
  
Natalie stood to go, brushing imaginary lint from her black uniform trousers. "Then I'll let you pack. Just one more thing, though: remember that Amman is a lot closer to Granada than Von Braun---"   
  
"---And that means plenty of opportunity for trouble. Let the Zeeks be the worried ones, Natalie. I'm staying focused on the task at hand." __Mostly because it may lead me to bigger fish.   
  
"Then I won't tell you to be careful. It's bad luck."   
  
"With you, everything's bad luck. Woof." Sylvie added the "woof" as a snide reference to the "Black Dog" nickname.   
  
On that note, Natalie left, throwing her hands in the air as though in supplication as the door shut slowly behind her. Sylvie thought for a moment, then grinned. "Now who's the bitch?"   
  
**Von Braun-Amman line, Luna, Sol System   
January 19, 0085**   
  
The underground monorail between the sprawl that was Von Braun and the more compact Amman colony was much quieter than Sylvie had anticipated. As it was, trailing the mark was not going to be the difficult part of this job; staying unnoticed was. There were six people in the monorail car, including Sylvie and her quarry, and half of them were staring at her. She did her best not to notice, but there was simply no place to hide and remain inside the car. Besides, her mark was the only male not ogling her.   
  
_Next time I'll wear riot gear and a helmet_, she swore to herself. One of the things Sylvie never understood was that no matter how much effort she put into remaining inconspicuous, males still zeroed in on her like she was a classic car or a perfect rack of ribs. Even now, with little makeup and clad in denim and a turtlenecked sweater, weighted down with lead to aid in preventing muscle and bone atrophy in the low-G Luna environment, they drooled. She almost wanted to squirm. She glared daggers at them instead.   
  
It was not as though she were worried about getting gang-raped on a monorail (she would have laughed aloud at the poor fools who tried). Instead, her reaction was more ashamed than fearful. It had been a long time since any man had stared at her with such a keen interest, and while some deep part of her might have once been flattered by the unwarranted attention, now such open desire elicited nothing but a sense of disgust. Spacenoid males were notoriously straightforward when it came to coveting things, especially members of the opposite sex (something about having to walk the line between life and disaster all the time), and their idea of a lengthy and mutually-fulfilling courtship was the conversation on the drive between the bar and the seedy honeycomb-cubicle hotel. Earthenoid males were almost timid in comparison, but even that had its aggravating moments. No happy mediums for Sylvie Gressier.   
  
Besides, she knew enough about the male half of the species to know that it had to divide its brain between two heads, and that gravity tended to assist the lower head in dominance. The last man who had looked at her like that and had not just wanted to get into her pants had been Max, and he had been almost casually genteel about it. Compared to that, the stares of her co-passengers were like shards of glass being dragged across her skin.   
  
So she glared at them for what seemed like hours, and did not blush. Eventually, they thought better of it and went back to whatever they were doing, and only occasionally glanced at her from the corners of their eyes. She did not fail to notice, but kept most of her attention on her mark.   
  
Conrad Kehl was not what she had been expecting of someone who spent his time being a part-time technician. For one thing, he did not __look like a technician. Most technicians tended to get a little on the dumpy side from too much fast food, too many long hours, and not nearly enough exercise in Luna's lower gravity environment. Kehl looked like a weightlifter, not a bookworm, but according to their reports he was adept at the jobs he was hired to do. He was tall, and almost handsome if not for the large, crescent-shaped scar below his left eye that ran the length of his cheekbone. His attire, which was casual, accentuated his physique very well.   
  
He also did not _move_ like a technician. He was obviously a Spacenoid, but he maneuvered in the Zero-G section like he was used to higher gravity than the colony at its normal state, and even in the places where the was a semblance of Earth normal gravity, his motions were more fluid than anyone's she had ever seen. He had a black portfolio that he hand-carried on board with him, apparently not trusting it to the baggage bay. When he had entered the car, his eyes had given everyone inside the once-over, then he had not looked at them again. He was too confident, and that made Sylvie nervous. His behavior was more akin to a Special Forces operative than a for-hire civilian, and she wondered what he had done during the War. She did not need intuition to figure out that he was not what he seemed to be. But there was something else about him that really made her curious; problem was, she could not figure out __what was making her so curious. It was not fear, but it was something very primal, very basic, and very, __very fleeting.   
  
_Doesn't matter anyway_, her mind told her, _he's probably a former Zeek, and that makes him scum_. Whatever he may have been, now he was a tool, and a marked man, and did not even know it. The ride was endured in silence._

**Amman, Luna, Sol System   
January 19, 0085**   
  
As fast and direct as the monorail was, several hours elapsed before their arrival in Amman. An outward node of the much-larger Granada colony, it's architecture was similar to the other Luna cities in that the majority of it was underground, situated in an efficient hub design that maximized volume available, as well as eased between-level transit as much as possible. Sylvie was almost relieved to be getting out of the car and back into the open again, if even just to stretch her legs. The stiffness would require a few hours to work out, but she figured her travels weren't done yet. It was into the "evening" in Amman now, and the massive interior lights that served as "daylight" had been dimmed to simulate the duskiness of rising nightfall.   
  
Kehl had begun making calls on a portable phone once the monorail had entered the bandwidth net radius of Amman, and Sylvie wished in vain for a frequency scanner/snooper. She would have loved to trace the calls from source, but she contented herself knowing that they'd pull them out of that cell phone's memory after she got done busting Kehl and whoever he was meeting. She had little doubt as to the identity of who was on the other end of the conversation; Kehl had been on the phone for almost an hour. He had been discreet about them, talking in hushed whispers so that the other passengers would be hard-pressed to eavesdrop, so she knew he was talking to his contact. The only problem was that Kehl had dialed multiple numbers and had had multiple conversations. Which was the real contact number, or were they all legitimate contacts? She decided she could get that out of Kehl later. Something about him was still bugging her, but after a few hours of mulling over it without _looking like she was mulling over it, she'd managed to come to the conclusion that it was something about the way he looked.   
  
She took a moment to stop in a grav bay and pop a few vertebrae back into place, but did not take her eyes off of Kehl as he floated over to a pay vidphone and make another call, shielded behind the opaque privacy screen. She took the opportunity to maneuver to a better location, one out of the hustle and bustle of the monorail station. She also used the time to begin familiarizing herself with Amman's layout, glancing at a level-by-level tourist map. It was colder in Amman than in Von Braun, climate control unable to compensate for Amman being on the dark side of Luna. After a while, it would become uncomfortable to someone who was acclimated to Von Braun's higher mean temperature.   
  
After several minutes, Kehl stepped out of the privacy shield and launched himself down the main access corridor towards baggage claim. Sylvie grabbed her own bag and followed at a marginal distance from "coincidental". He bypassed baggage altogether and kept going, waving one of the hovercabs towards himself and getting in. As he departed, Sylvie flagged down one of her own, which appeared with prompt attention to customer demands.   
  
"Where to, ma'am?" asked the cabbie to the looker that closed the door behind her as she climbed into his unit.   
  
She pointed to the front, a fifty-credit chit in her slender fingers. "See that cab that peeled out just before you? Follow it."   
  
The cabbie's eyebrow quirked. "This ain't some kind of trouble, is it?"   
  
"Not yet. Just drive." She dropped the chit into the passenger seat, then flipped her Federation ID out into her hand as if she's pulled it out of thin air. Her eyes, steely behind the ID, brooked no argument.   
  
"Your call, ma'am." The cab sped forward, a few vehicle lengths behind the other conveyance.   
  
"I'm glad you see it my way. Just don't lose them if you want to stay even remotely on my good side." Sylvie's voice left no doubt about the consequences of failure in that regard. The cabbie swallowed nervously and increased speed.   
  
  
Kehl's cab took them several levels above the monorail station, which surprised Sylvie. All the really nice places for visitors in Amman seemed to be on the lower levels, not the upper ones. _Is his contact not from around here, or is this just a less-public meeting place to use? _  
  
"He's stopping, ma'am," said the cabbie, knocking her awareness back into her own taxi.   
  
"Stop a block away and let me out. How much do I owe you?" Sylvie glanced out the windows. There was moderate traffic on the street, but not large masses of people. They appeared to be in an administrative ring, populated by offices and small businesses.   
  
"Not a thing, ma'am. The fifty you gave me covered it all."   
  
She tossed another at him. "Keep the change." __Just some 'travel expenses' for the Titans to pay me back for later.   
  
She climbed out of the cab, barely hearing the cabbie's stuttered thanks, eyes trained on Kehl as he strode through the growing darkness with the ease of someone who knew exactly where he was going. If she had been a superstitious person, she would have been slightly unnerved by the imagery. The cab buzzed away to its next job, and she began following Kehl, paying little attention to the scattered other souls walking alongside the street.   
  
_Dammit, I'm a soldier, not a spook. This would have been a thousand times simpler if I could just shoot this slimeball and leave_. Her keen senses were flashing warnings at her now, but her consciousness wasn't picking up what her instincts were trying to tell her. Her idea of sneakiness was popping a _Zaku_ with an MS beam rifle at a hundred klicks in coverage terrain, and cloak-and-dagger ops were not conducive to such conditions.   
  
Kehl began to fidget as he walked, the first real signs of nervousness Sylvie had witnessed from him. He scratched his head with his free hand, tugged at a shirt sleeve, pulled at his collar. She sped up a little, to try and get a glimpse of sweat on his head. The nervous signs made Sylvie feel a little better; whoever Kehl was meeting was important enough that he did not feel entirely comfortable being with them, and that would make him sloppy. The silenced 9mm pistol in her handbag made her comfortable enough, but that was her ace in the hole.   
  
She was only about twenty paces behind Kehl now, and he had not given any indication that he had caught on that she had been following him since Von Braun. He turned a corner into an alleyway between two office buildings, leaving her view for a moment. She hurried to catch up, adept enough to stop at the end of the wall and peer into the alley before blithely following him in like some rank amateur. Her eyes, while excellent, saw darkness; night had fallen in earnest in Amman. Steeling herself, she stepped into the alley, expecting anything.   
  
Silence greeted her. Within the confines of the alley, not even the distant noises of traffic could be heard. Straining her ears as she walked deeper into the darkness and the quiet, listening for anything, she put her hand inside her bag, feeling the reassuring grip of the pistol. Her foot brushed a piece of debris, making a clatter as her inertia moved it away, and she froze instinctively. Her heart began to beat faster as her adrenal glands did their job, and she unconsciously slipped into "combat mode", flattening against the wall of the building on her left, controlling her breathing, senses attuned for the slightest input. Still nothing. Her eyes, slowly adjusting to the low light conditions, scanned the alley for any signs of life. She began to move again, hoping that she hadn't lost Kehl over a case of the paranoids.   
  
More litter crackled under her step or tried to make her stumble, but despite the noise she kept moving forward until the alleyway suddenly expanded into a wide area, and she realized that the two buildings were both shaped like "I"s, and she was in the middle. This revelation came to her just as every intuitive nerve in her mind shrieked and she ducked, and a length of iron rebar missed her scalp and hit the wall with a bone-jarring __clang.   
  
The gun was out of the handbag before she completed her duck, but as she prepared to put two smoking holes in her attacker, a hand came out of nowhere and knocked the gun loose to skitter away from her, and she realized that she was well and truly screwed. The light in the open area was better, and she retreated into it to give herself more room (and to see who and how many she was dealing with here). Her stance slid into standard Federation hand-to-hand form, and her awareness reached out all around her.   
  
There were three of them, thug-types, and they'd managed to sneak up behind her while she was concerned about the front. Amazed, she recognized them as being three random passers-by as she had been trailing Kehl. Then she understood why Kehl had been fidgeting; he was signalling his goon squad! Which meant---   
  
She heard more than felt the large chunk of ferrocrete impact her in the back of the skull, and she dropped to her hands and knees as her whole universe exploded as one big _thwuck_. Her mind, unable to control the autonomic functions of her physical form, began working overtime on analysis.   
  
_Damn! Damn! Get UP, Sylvie! They're going to kick your ass if you don't GET UP RIGHT NOW!!_ She struggled to her feet, only to have a fist the size of a ham smash into her sternum, and she crumpled to the floor of the alley again. Her wind was gone, and now standing was almost impossible. But she was still able to hear the words that were spoken into the miasma of pain that had become her consciousness, especially when one of the goons grabbed her by her hair and jerked her head up to face a pair of black leisure shoes.   
  
The voice was almost chiding in its derision, and laced with an accent both fascinating and clinically evil-sounding. "Have you ever hunted jaguar, my pretty little spy?" The voice did not wait for her to cough up a response. "It is a truly visceral experience. Jaguars like to turn the tables on their hunters by climbing a tree and waiting for them to cross beneath it. A skilled hunter of jaguar learns to grow eyes in the back of his head, to know whether or not he is still the stalker instead of the prey."   
  
The speaker crouched down, and Kehl's face swam into Sylvie's view as the goons muscled her into a very immobilizing grapple. "You've been following me since Von Braun, but you also didn't bring any backup with you, which means you left yourself without a safety net. Bad tactical move, precious. I, on the other hand, prepared for any contingency. Who are you, that you would track me all the way here from Von Braun, alone?"   
  
One of the goons was going through her pockets a little too thoroughly, pulling out her wallet and passing it to Kehl, who glanced at its contents. "Mmm, Federation armed forces ID card. Quaint. Arrogance and stupidity, all rolled into one. You a renegade, precious, hunting Spacenoids for fun? Did I look like a suitable challenge for you?" Kehls' face changed from mild amusement to callous loathing. "You got very lucky stumbling onto me, __verbandischer Fotze, but your luck's run out now."   
  
Sylvie couldn't work up the energy to spit on him, but she did manage to surprise one of the goons by pulling an arm free of his grip and lashing out at Kehl, who caught her wrist before she could damage him. She was rewarded for her effort by having her face smashed onto the alley floor, twice.   
  
Kehl's smile made the scar under his eye pucker. "Feisty Federation whore, are we?"   
  
One of the goons piped up, his voice markedly different from Kehl's. "The bitch's stronger than she looks."   
  
"Naturally," remarked Kehl, a look of disgust on his face, "she's from Earth, which makes her a better physical specimen than you Lunar _Pfiefe_. If you underestimate her again, I'll snap your bones like twigs." He shifted his eyes to look at her again, pulling a ceramic folding tactical knife out of a sleeve and flicking it open with a _click_. "Little jaguar, it's time for you to be bled and skinned. You should have stayed far away from more dangerous creatures."   
  
_Give me a mobile suit and then tell me that, you bastard_. This wasn't good. She'd walked right into their hands, and didn't smell it coming. Now she was about to be slit open and left to bleed to death in an alley in Amman, and with three men holding her down, she was in a very unenviable position. The fact that she __wasn't from Earth probably wouldn't impress any mercy from pigs like these.   
  
"Can't we have a little fun with her first? She's a hot catch," asked one of the goons.   
  
Kehl glanced up. "Are all Lunarians as dumb as you three, or did you have to be bred to this level of stupidity? Don't you know that Earth females have teeth down there as well as in their mouths? She'd bite your little __Pimmel and your __Sack right off before you ever got close to satisfaction. No, better that this harlot of decadence meet her end as dry and rancid as the slavers she works for. Raise her head higher."   
  
Sylvie's hair almost tore from her scalp as a goon grabbed a bigger fistful of it and yanked her skull back further than would ever be comfortable, and she managed enough breath to scream once, short and sharp, and it echoed through the alley.   
  
Kehl placed the tip of the knife under her right eye. "Scream again and I make this last an hour instead of thirty seconds. Be glad I'm not letting my three local hires rape you in every orifice before I kill you."   
  
Her eyes spoke of a death more horrible than anything ever imagined, and she rasped out: "You not man enough to do it yourself, animal?"   
  
Kehl reached out and pinched her cheek as if she were a little schoolgirl. "Think what you would, whore, but I find you genetically incompatible, just like every other Earthenoid wench I've killed." The knife, held in the way a professional would, drew back to make the slash that would end her life on this cold ground. "Enjoy Hell, Feddie deathfucker."   
  
Four _thwip_ sounds came from nowhere, followed very closely by a splash of warmth that drenched Sylvie in red. The goons released her and she fell to the ground. Kehl staggered back, falling onto his butt while clutching a bleeding hand in his good one, pain evident on his face, but his recovery was insanely fast, and he was on his feet with the knife in his good hand, face twisted in a bestial snarl. Sylvie summoned every last bit of strength she had left and got as far away from Kehl as she could manage, having to roll over a goon in the process, amazed that she was still alive. She propped herself against the wall and surveyed the scene quickly.   
  
Three goons, all dead, missing large portions of their craniums. One wounded Kehl, the mark, knife still in his good hand, and what looked like a kid holding her silenced 9mm pistol, trained on Kehl. She wiped her eyes, trying to clear goon blood out of them to focus better, but was only succeeding in smearing it around worse. It didn't help that some of her own was free-flowing its way into the conversation, too.   
  
Kehl took a step to the right, knife extended forward in an __en garde, pointing at the newcomer. "Who the fuck--?"   
  
The pistol-wielder's voice was a tenor, like what a very young man would have, accentless and sloppy. "I'm me. What's it to ya, pencil dick?"   
  
"Drop that gun and fight me, and you'll find out, __Schweinehund!" hissed Kehl as his eyes tracked the pistol barrel.   
  
Laughter like the tinkling of a crystal chandelier. "You're kidding, right? Like I'm gonna _let_ you lay the goon hand on me, asshole. What'd the lady do to you four, put sugar in your gas tank or something? You guys end up missing your seats on the man train?"   
  
"_Verpiss dich, Schleimscheisser! Das geht dich einen Scheissdreck an!_" Kehl's knife twirled through the air as he threw it, then lunged sideways with the incredible speed of a high-G body in a low-G setting. The knife missed the target's face by about two centimeters.   
  
The pistol went _thwip_ twice more, and Kehl, despite his speed, dropped like a stone to the hard ground, breath rattling out of his chest. "I _understood_ that, dumbshit," said the man matter-of-factly. "Just like a goathumper to bring a knife to a gunfight."   
  
Looking down at Sylvie, he tossed the pistol to her, then walked back and picked up the knife. "The gun's yours, but I still need this knife for a minute. Please don't shoot me, 'kay?"   
  
_He just killed my mark! This whole op is ruined!_ Her business mind howled in rage at the circumstances of this. This could not have been a worse development. The buyer hadn't even shown up yet! She weakly grasped the pistol and put it in her lap, struggling to stay conscious. She hadn't managed to get the blood completely out of her eyes, so she had not gotten a clear look at the boy who had saved her. With supreme effort, she swiveled her gaze from the gun in her lap to the tableau before her, and gasped.   
  
The boy was cutting out Kehl's tongue with the knife. When he was finished removing the strand of muscle, he plunged the knife, tongue and all, into Kehl's throat, wiping his hands on his own clothes. Then he walked over to a water spigot and turned it on, its stream spraying over Kehl's corpse until it was drenched. He spat on the ground. "Now who's a slime-shitter, you low-gene lump of worm food?" He turned off the water, then walked to the body and kicked it solidly in the ribs. "Stupid-ass foreigners thinkin' they can just stroll on in and pick on every hot chick they come across because they can't get it up unless someone's yelling for the cops! What __is Luna coming to, I ask? This used to be a nice place to live, too!" He gave it another kick, across the face, making Kehl's head cant at a weird angle. "__You pricks are the reason I can't find a goddamn military discount in this place! _FUCK_, I hate this town!"   
  
Seemingly satisfied, he started to walk towards Sylvie. "Hey, you okay, lady? You look a little pale there. . ."   
  
A familiar sensation washed over Sylvie when he reached her, a feeling like a thousand buzzing wasps swarming in her head. She blinked once, dizzy, as he knelt down beside her and put his cold hands on her face, peeling back an eyelid to check for concussion, and Sylvie's mind exploded with images as soon as his fingertips made contact with her flesh, and she cried out.   
  
_---Fire, smoke, death, a torrent of carnage like nothing she'd ever seen. Choking black clouds that swirled around hot, scorching flames that consumed everything around them. The stench of blood and burning flesh, reaching to the heavens with its stink in plumes of oily black miasma. Screams everywhere, thousands upon thousands of screams, punctuated by a high-pitched, mocking laughter that could only be called "evil" in origin. A raging lion. gore spattering its face, roaring its wrath at a bleeding Earth that had been rent open by its claws and fangs, but contained within its roar was a laugh that echoed through eternity. A shrill-screaming, black-winged eagle, talons sunk deep in the flesh of the world, pitiless beak snapping its hunger at whatever came near, raised its wings over its prey, their shadows leeching away life. A hot, white star glowed in the sky, moving about, flaring to ashes anything it touched, and a sword that sundered to pieces what the hateful star did not burn erupted from its incandescent depths. Below them, a legion of steel and fire strode across the land, devastation in their wake, no obstacle too difficult to overcome, with the symbol of Zeon on their breasts and a thousand different faces that all bore the same malice for decency and equity. And everywhere, people shrieked out their very souls in agony and died in droves before the might of the unholy army, all attempts to halt their advance by force of arms withering in the maelstrom of abhorrence that razed entire cities. Tendrils of an insane rage reached forth from the burning, bleeding Earth into the cold of Space, reaching out to encompass the whole of the Earth Sphere in an iron grip of gold, red, and black, and what survived the holocaust was enmeshed in chains of genetic adamant, double-helix symbols pinioning their broken-willed captives with a cruelty no mortal fetter had ever managed to inspire--- _  
  
She began to struggle to get away, but in her condition she could not escape. He gripped her arms, gently but firmly, to hold her in place. "H-__hey now! I'm just trying to help here, lady, don't freak out on me," said the boy, whose face was a blur but whose soul was as clear a killer of men as anything Sylvie had ever known. Her would-be savior was a monster that even Ming Chow could not conceive of, and to make matters even worse, he was a Zeon. "Anything broken in there? Can you walk?"   
  
Sylvie never responded, as her mind shut down and the world went black around her.   
  
**Amman, Luna, Sol System   
January 20, 0085**   
  
The smell of coffee. The sound of running water. A comforting warmth that pervaded everything. Sylvie Gressier thought she was dead. Only Heaven could be this nice after what happened, though it certainly seemed strange that she was being allowed here even after all she had done--- her eyes snapped open, but she did not move anything else. _Where the hell am I? _  
  
Her mind started taking inventory as her eyes moved about the room. From the look of things, it was a hotel room, and not one of the shady little po-dunk hotels. She was on the bed, the sheets drawn over her. Across the room was a couch, a pillow thrown on it haphazardly. Small kitchen area (further evidence that this was a nice hotel) near a mini-bar on the far end. Some sort of portable device atop the mini-bar. A room unit that was the source of the heat that kept this place more comfortable that the rest of Amman. Light coming from a dimmed lamp on her left, and from an open doorway on her right. The running water was coming from that door, and she concluded that it was the bathroom. That meant she wasn't alone.   
  
Carefully, mindful over the fact that she had a screaming headache, she turned her head to the right. Her handbag was on a chair in the corner, her wallet and pistol on the nightstand beside her, along with a glass of water and two tiny pink ovals that looked like pills. _Great. I'm exposed, too_. Putting a hand to her head, she sat up and began listening to her body.   
  
Aside from the headache, she seemed little the worse for wear. A small bandage on her head, some bruising on her ribs that might be a little troublesome, and the typical aches and pains from running on an adrenaline high and then getting your ass kicked real good. Grimly, she began to sit up, wriggling backward to place her back against the pillow and the bedstand, and that was when she realized that she was totally naked. _What the hell---?_   
  
The portable device on the mini-bar beeped once, then a sound like a thousand drillbits burst into the pain that was her skull, taking her mind off of the fact that she was wearing nothing but the sheets and her skin. After a brief moment, the noise coalesced into a piano riff. __Dun-dun-dun-dundundundun-DUN!   
  
_"'Just take those old re-cords off the shel~lf!!'"_ came a voice from the bathroom, singing lustily and out of tune with the rougher, deeper voice from the device (a portable stereo, reported her mind to her). _"'I'll sit and lis-ten to them by~y my-self!! To-day's music ain't got the same sou~ul!! I like that o~old time rock and roll!!'"_   
  
And out of the bathroom cavorted what looked to be an elf, one that Sylvie vaguely recognized but finally got a good look at. __Too good a look, because he was wearing nothing but a pair of black boxers with little dancing, pastel-colored bears on them.   
  
He was shorter than she was, about 5 ½ feet tall, give or (mostly) take a few inches. She couldn't see his eyes, because they were screwed shut as he sang along with the song into a hairbrush as he danced his way around the mini-bar. Brown hair that was getting a bit long and unruly, spiking out in multiple directions. Long, tapered nose, and skin that was flawlessly smooth except in the places where scars had developed from past injuries. Some of them looked like claw marks. Well-muscled for a teenager; in fact, in prime physical condition, if a bit thin, and he had shoulderblades that could cut paper, even at the downhill slide of his physical development; a compact build most would have loved to stuff into a mobile suit or fighter cockpit.   
  
_"'Still like that o~old time rock and roll!! That kind of mu-sic just soo~thes the so~oul!! I re-min-isce abo~out the da~ays of old! I like that o~old time rock and roll!'"_ He had thus far not noticed her staring at him, so enmeshed he was in the song blaring from the stereo.   
  
Sylvie decided that enough was enough. _"TURN THAT DOWN!!" _she yelled over the song and the boy's scratchy tenor voice. The boy spun around incredibly fast, eyes snapping open before he'd completed his turn, hand slapping on the stereo with supreme familiarity, and the music ceased abruptly.   
  
"Oh, hi!" exclaimed her savior/captor/enemy, the hairbrush leveled at his side, totally unconcerned about his lack of clothing in front of her, which intrigued her; most men she knew would have tried to cover up. "I was wondering when you'd wake up. I'll bet you've got the Excedrin Headache Number One after fuckface and his boys beat you up. The pills on the nightstand are painkillers if you need 'em, and I'll bet you do 'cause anyone would." He put the hairbrush on the mini-bar and reached his hands behind him, then stretched his arms straight back and up, sternum and joints popping and every muscle became evident under his skin, still completely in his own comfort zone even while being stared at by a stranger. He rambled on about this-and-that as he picked up the brush and started working on his shoulder-length hair.   
  
The boy's wide eyes were a hazel/amber, and they were huge, along with what seemed to be an omnipresent devil-may-care grin that could either grow endearing or aggravating, depending. When taken fully into being, he looked like a darker-haired, darker-eyed, young Fernando Ramallo, a Spanish actor from the pre-UC era; which was to say a cross between Caucasoid and extraterrestrial.   
  
That was when it hit Sylvie like a thunderclap, as she stared at this being. __What the--? He's TOO skinny! That's what was wrong with Kehl, too!! From her vantage point, this boy was missing the ever-present subcutaneous fat layer that most males had as insulation just under their dermic layer. He was skin, muscle, sinew, and bone, nothing else. She knew enough of male physiology to know how bizarre that was, especially on two different people. She forced her jaw not to drop, deciding instead to get enmeshed in the conversation. "Why am I naked?"   
  
"Oh," said the boy casually, "I had to strip you to clean you. Your clothes should be up along with breakfast, which'll be here in a few minutes. You didn't seem to have any changes in your bag, so I sent yours to be cleaned. The hotel's got a great house service, which is more than I can say for the nasty-ass orange juice and the soggy toast. In fact, I'm pretty sure that's what they'll be sending up, so I'd better get the---"   
  
"You stripped me?"   
  
"Yeah. You're not bad-looking, so don't get testy---"   
  
_"What?!"_ Sylvie's glare could have made dormant volcanoes erupt on Io, or melted the ice on Europa.   
  
The boy pointed the hairbrush at her. "You've kept yourself in shape, considering your age and all, so you're still in the game whenever you wanna be. You're Feddie military, so---"   
  
Sylvie's hand grabbed the pistol and brought it up even as he kept talking. Her thumb flicked the safety off even before she drew aim. The sheet fell away from her, nearly exposing her breasts, but she ignored it. If he was going to be unconcerned about nudity, then so was she.   
  
"WHOA!! _Hold it!!_" The hairbrush hit the floor as his hands shot out in front of him like shields, and the grin slid off of his face, which went from amused to serious (an expression that looked very strange on him). "Geez, miss, I save __your ass and now you're gonna waste __me in _my_ own hotel room?? Fucking _ingrate_ Feddies!"   
  
She pulled the trigger. Nothing. She pulled it again, with the same result. She popped the magazine out and almost groaned. Empty. Part of her told her that she should have expected this, but she still glowered at him, and his grin not only returned, but got bigger in the process. _

He hummed a little tune to the air, between his bright teeth. "Oopsy. Outta bangs."   
  
"Where are the bullets?" she asked quietly.   
  
"Somewhere far away, where you can't hurt l'il ol' _moi with 'em. Mama didn't raise no fool, and nice girls shouldn't play with guns any more than guys like me should. We were just getting to know each other, so why spoil the atmosphere with a few unnecessary gunshot wounds, 'specially in me, you know?"   
  
For a long moment, they just stared at each other.   
  
"Look," he said quietly. "I had to strip you to bathe you. After I was done, I put you in bed and I slept on the couch. That's all. You can have yourself checked out at one of the hospitals later if you want, but trust me, your virtue is still completely intact, and I was only trying to help you after all that. I don't know why an infamous Federation ace was following some doofus around in the back alleys of Amman, but it was only the fact that you screamed that I even found you. That asshole was gonna mince you and leave you for the rats, but God got me there in time to stop it, understand? I didn't mess with you beyond how I told it. That's the honest to God truth, I swears it on the stars."   
  
After a moment, Sylvie asked: "Why didn't you just take me to a hospital?"   
  
The boy tilted up his head and laughed aloud. "With your ID? A notorious Feddie ace in sedation in a hospital in Amman! You realize you wouldn't last ten seconds in there, right? Some Zavi-lover'd dump enough scopalamine into you to fry your synapses and get you telling them your grandma's famous raisin cookie recipe, just before they bleached your arteries clean with industrial solvent and put your shriveled cadaver in a box and planted you out in the craters. I _knew_ better, okay?"   
  
_He's got a point_. She didn't lower the gun. "Who are you, kid?"   
  
The boy beamed. "'Kid'? First off all, 'Mom', I'm twenty-two years old and about to be married and someday be a daddy. Second of all, considering how well I know how Spacenoids work, you've probably already figured out I __is one. Pleased to meet you, Ms. Gressier, hope you've guessed _my_ name."   
  
_'Mom'? I'm only twenty-nine, you brat. _She spoke the word like a curse. "Zeon."   
  
The boy shrugged. "Once, a long time ago. Now I'm just a civilian worker on Luna. Name's Rigel. Rigel fan Waal." He said it like it was supposed to be impressive to her or something. She just stared at him, and he got confused. "You've never heard of Rigel fan Waal?"   
  
She shook her head, eyes still on him.   
  
He leaned forward, muscles rippling beneath his flesh. "I'm the guy who made the Kessel run in less than twelve parsecs."   
  
"Where's 'Kessel'?"   
  
She apparently missed the reference, and he sighed. "Never mind, it was a joke. I'm a tramp freighter pilot for hire, the best in the Earth Sphere. I can make the run from L3 to L2 in four days, cargo guaranteed intact on delivery. I ain't cheap, but you ain't wasting your money, either. I'm here in Amman scoping out the job opportunities, but I live in Granada, and have for a while now. I've been here for three days, and I'm due to go back the day after. __Yes, I'm a former Zeon soldier, __yes, I've killed people, four just yesterday, and I'm not happy about that but there it is."   
  
"Did you know him?"   
  
"Who?"   
  
"The one with the knife."   
  
"Hell, no. No fun, that guy. I don't party with deadbeats. But he did speak a language I understood."   
  
"What language?"   
  
"Asshole-ese. I took offense when he told me to fuck off." Fan Waal chewed his lower lip for a moment. "Now, could you please put the empty gun down, Ms. Gressier? It's making me nervous."   
  
If it wasn't outright bragging, four days between L3 and L2 was excellent time, and if he had wanted to hurt her he would have done so already. Did her intuition fail her back in the alley? This guy did not seem the type to commit the level of destruction she had "seen" in her mind, not by a long shot, but she did not entirely believe him about his not knowing Kehl. She decided to take a chance. Sylvie finally returned the hammer on the gun to the safe position and lowered it. "Okay, you get to live, for now. What's the plan?"   
  
"Well," mused fan Waal as he glanced at the bedside clock, "first I'm gonna go kick someone's ass for being late with your clothes and breakfast, 'cause I don't know about you but I could eat all the cheese on the Moon right now. In the meantime, I'm done with the bathroom, so it's all yours, Ms. Gressier."   
  
Sylvie placed the gun on the nightstand. "__Why did you do this? You know I'm Federation, and you're a former Zeon."   
  
"So? One thing you Feds have never gotten through your 'holier-than-thou' skulls is that the War was just business to us. Well, I'm in a new business now, and last time I checked, beating up a woman is prickish even when they're Federation, and I was trained to be a nice guy. I'm not some Titan android, who gets his rocks off beating up regular joes, and I got feelings, too. I also got all the benefits of a classical education and upper-crust upbringing. Go get cleaned up. I'm going to bitch someone out on the phone."   
  
Sylvie didn't move. Fan Waal noticed. "You need help getting there?"   
  
"No, but I'd like to not parade around in the altogether, if that's all right with you."   
  
"Heh," smirked fan Waal, "like I haven't seen it all before."   
  
"That was then. This is now."   
  
"A prude at your age? Must be lonesome."   
  
Sylvie almost tore the sheet in half. "Are you __flirting with me, Mr. fan Waal?"   
  
"Naw, Ms. Gressier, but thanks for asking. I've got a fiancée already, sorry, and she'd kill me if she thought I was screwing around. I'm just being cutesy for cutesy's sake." Fan Waal took down a white bathrobe from behind the bathroom door and tossed it to her, then turned his back to give her some privacy. As she managed to get to her feet and tie the robe in place, she heard him muttering "Squeamish Spacenoids, who'd've thunk it?" just before she closed the door to the bathroom.   
  
  
  
After a long, hot shower, Sylvie opened the door to the bathroom, robe on and towel over her hair. Fan Waal was fully clothed, sitting on the bed with the phone in his hand, not looking at her. Her clothes, freshly washed, were folded neatly on the chair next to her handbag.   
  
"No---no---listen, I ordered up for breakfast an hour ago. You got the cleaning job right, but I'm still waiting on grub here. Contrary to popular belief, man can't live on coffee alone---" he brushed a bang out of his eyes, then sighed. "Fine, look, never mind, but I'd better see mints on the pillow when I get back, or I'll tax that ass, got it?---Good. Thanks for chatting." Fan Waal hung up, then ran a hand through his hair and stood up. "Little flunky prick," he murmured angrily to the air, then noticed her. "Clothes are here, but no breakfast. What say we go hunting for some?"   
  
"How did you know I was a Spacenoid?"   
  
Fan Waal rolled his eyes. "Do you always answer a question with a question? Of _course_ I knew you were a Spacenoid. You don't grow up with the brothers I did and __not get a crash course on breeding. You've got the signs in all the right places. Now, breakfast: shall we hunt some?"   
  
Sylvie's mind recalled what Kehl had mentioned about 'hunting', and she recoiled from it. "What?" she asked, the question not quite sinking in.   
  
Fan Waal exhaled, then stood, his height about three inches shorter than hers. He was wearing blue denim, brown boots, and a long-sleeved white shirt underneath a black T-shirt that had an old newspaper image on its front. There was a face on it, and a big headline blared "Bowie Quits!" above the image. Tiny words, obviously the article, scrolled down the rest of the picture.   
  
Then he extended a hand and executed a picture-perfect, elegant bow that no one should be able to do in this day and age. She involuntarily gasped at the gesture, shocked that this urbane little man could know such an anachronistic formality. "Ms. Gressier, would you do me the honor of joining me out on the town for breakfast? My treat."   
  
A sensation of anxiety suddenly swept over her, along with a lightheadedness. She realized she was ravenous, and that she'd eaten nothing in almost thirty hours. Breakfast seemed like a slice of heaven, but the constant buzzing in her head, that had persisted the entire time she'd been in fan Waal's presence, had been distracting her mind from her body's need for fuel. While she would have preferred different company than a former Zeon soldier as oddball as this one was, she could hardly refuse such a gracious offer.   
  
After a stunned moment, she extended her own hand and touched his own, steeling her mind from the psychic onslaught from yesterday. It did not come, though for a brief instant she thought she heard a scream, as if in the distance. Then she nodded. "It would be an honor, Mr. fan Waal, if you would call me Sylvie."   
  
"Only if you call me Rigel, Sylvie," the boyish grin swelled until it looked like it would split his head open, then he placed a brief kiss in the air just above the top of her hand. Once he was done, he released her hand and stood straight again. "So, like, let's go already. You chicks take forever, and if we can get across the hub and up a few levels, we'll make it just in time before my reservation expires."_

An hour later, they were seated in a place that was far ritzier than any breakfast joint she'd ever seen on Luna. For one thing, both she and fan Waal were horribly underdressed.  For another, all the tables were reservation only. Her eyes tracked across the room in awe.  It looked like something you'd find on Earth: giant chandeliers giving off a glowing light that illuminated murals and wall paintings of famous art pieces; a huge, high-domed ceiling with buttresses that was painted with a Boticelli rendition of angels; even the dishware looked expensive.   
  
Fan Waal beamed at the expression on her face. "Not bad, eh? I found this by accident back in 0083. Who'd've thought to look for a joint like this on the _upper_ levels of _Amman, of all places? Only by following their nose, lemme tell ya. This dig isn't in any of the registries for the city."   
  
After another moment of taking it all in, Sylvie let out a breath she had not realized she was holding. "Wh-what _is_ this place?"   
  
Fan Waal clapped his hands together and rubbed them. "The only place in this town to get a good eggs Benedict. And their croissants are to __die for, too. Welcome to 'Starviews', Sylvie, where the only thing more amazing than the food is the bill afterwards, but I've got it covered."   
  
At the mention of _croissants_, her heart took several beats too rapidly; those had been a pain to get in Von Braun, and they were her only real culinary weakness. "You are the strangest person I've ever had the chance to meet, Rigel."   
  
"Maybe so," he smirked, "but I still reek of awesomeness. Still, you're the celebrity here, though not the kind that would likely patronize a place like this, eh?"   
  
"What do you mean?"   
  
Fan Waal glanced around quickly, making certain they were out of earshot. "Well," he whispered, "it's not everyday I get to see the 'Valkyrie of Revo' nekkers in my bed, you know. Made __my millennium, at least."   
  
Despite her best efforts, Sylvie blushed furiously and threw her napkin at him. "You're horrible. How could any woman stand you enough to marry you?"   
  
Fan Waal leaned back, crossing his fingers behind his head. "Because I'm me. Who could want anything else? I'm suave, debonair, a stud. Face it, I'm the picture perfect male."   
  
"Maybe if you add a stepladder into the equation."   
  
"Ouch," he winced, then deepened his voice into a low, rumbling drawl, "Don't be cruel, lady. I'm incredibly sensitive about my closeness to the ground."   
  
"Then drop the 'naked' subject." Sylvie took a sip of water from her glass, wondering where their server was.   
  
"Okay, okay, don't fork me or anything. You're the one attracting all the stares, anyway. Where the hell's Girard? He's not usually---" he cut himself off when a man in very formal wear appeared off his right shoulder, "---right on time! How're you doing, Girard?"   
  
"Just fine today, Mr. fan Waal. How are you and the lady this morning?" He had one of those pseudo-French accents that all good waiters in fancy establishments needed to have.   
  
"I is doin' all right. The lady is a little sensitive today, but otherwise alive and well."   
  
"The lady is going to hurt you badly if you don't stop being ingratiating," muttered Sylvie, wondering how humiliating this was going to get before it was over.   
  
"The lady is a new acquaintance of yours, Mr. fan Waal?" Girard's mustache twitched once. "Again?"   
  
Fan Waal at least had the decency to blush. "It's __not like _that_ this time, Girard. You tell Candace and I'll spike your head into the fish batter."   
  
"Understood, sir. Are you ready to order, madam? Mr. fan Waal will undoubtedly have his usual."   
  
"I'd like to order another date, if I could," said Sylvie, "but in the interim, I'll have what he's having."   
  
"Plus croissants." Fan Waal's voice added in a quiet tone. "Lots of them. And keep the hot chocolate flowing, we're going to be here for a while. No skimping on the butter, either."   
  
"As sir wishes. I will return in a few moments." Girard left, sparing them only one glance backwards as he moved through the marginally crowded room.   
  
"He digs you," said fan Waal.   
  
"I thought I said to stop that."   
  
"You did, but that's the only way I can get your face to change to something that doesn't look dead."   
  
_Would that I were_. "I've had little to be alive about for a long time."   
  
Fan Waal's entire demeanor changed, and he set his elbows on the table and put his face in his hands, propping up his head. "Tell me about it."   
  
Sylvie drew back. "I don't think so."   
  
"Awww, why not? I can keep a secret. You show me yours and I'll show you mine." His face scrunched itself up until he looked like a smile with hair.   
  
"Absolutely not. You're a complete stranger."   
  
"Oh-ho. After all we've been through, you still think that? You don't do relationships easy, do you?"   
  
"You know me _so_ well."   
  
"Sarcasm becomes you. Fine, then, I'll tell you about me, but you have to promise not to tell nobody."   
  
Sylvie quirked an eyebrow. "All right."   
  
Fan Waal extended a pinkie finger. "Pinkie swear it."   
  
"Are you sure you're twenty-two?"   
  
"As sure as the fact that the stars are out now." The pinkie finger tilted upward, pointing.   
  
Sylvie looked up and blinked. Where there used to be a dome with Boticelli paintings was now an endless field of stars, bright in the darkness. They had dimmed the interior lights and made the ceiling electrically transparent, and she had not noticed a bit of it, he was so distracting. "Just talk," she replied, still staring upwards at Space, as much her home as anywhere. For all the pain it had caused Mankind, it never looked the part.   
  
"Okay, well, let's see, I was a soldier for Zeon during the War. . ."   
  
"What did you do?"   
  
"Not much. I was only sixteen back then, so I had to make way for the more experienced folks. Fighter pilot mostly. Got into mobile suits afterwards. Got cashiered after Solomon fell, and I moved to Granada and got my pilot's license after the Armistice. Been doing that ever since. I'm thinking I probably need a change of pace, though, so I was thinking of gunrunning or pimping. You interested?"   
  
Sylvie coughed, choking as water went down the wrong pipe. He passed her a napkin. "Sorry. That was a joke."   
  
She nodded, then motioned for him to continue. __Solomon, my ass. She distinctly remembered seeing Earth when they were in contact, and nothing about Solomon.   
  
"Hmmm, what else? I'm affianced to a really swell gal named Candace. We'll marry this June."   
  
"Kids?" She inquired about the plural, and fan Waal's smile almost outshone the stars above them.   
  
"Yeah, eventually. Probably sooner than later. After losing so much, for once I'd like to get to gain some people. Nice to think about that, isn't it?" His eyes fixed on hers. "You've lost people, too. I can see it."   
  
"Drop that. Now."   
  
"You've been sad ever since, haven't you? Not easy to get close to people, to trust that when they say they'll come back, they really will this time instead of having to be picked out of particulate matter. Then you end up hating them for being liars, and hating yourself for hating them because they're dead."   
  
"Enough!" She was getting angry now.   
  
"Don't feel bad about it, a lot of folks came out of the War on the empty side, especially the soldiers. I was a wreck for years. I lost both my brothers and a crapload of buds, even a few who were dumb enough to sign up with Delaz. But God spared me to live on, and it must've been for a reason, so I asked Him, and He said, 'Carry on, my wayward son; for there'll be peace when you are done; lay your weary head to rest; and don't you cry no more.' So I find reasons to keep on smiling. Here come a few now."   
  
Sylvie did not immediately reply; the food had arrived. Between bites of eggs Benedict, fan Waal continued: "Food, for one. I hope the grub's this good in heaven, or I'm gonna pitch a bitch until He ships me back down."   
  
Sylvie could hardly disagree, as she discovered that the jam was real, as was the butter, and the croissants were not frozen reheats. "This," she began, catching a bit of jam on her finger and unabashedly slurping it off, "this is _amazing_!"   
  
"The jam's an Earth import, though I think Side 3's almost ready to compete with their own gene-engineered, colony-friendly grapevines. The butter's from Side 4, and the croissants are baked locally. How could anything be wrong?"   
  
"I couldn't care less." She was grabbing croissants and putting them on her plate. Fan Waal watched, incredulous, as she snagged every single one from the basket and began tearing into them.   
  
"Damn," he said, amazed, "you are prettier when you smile."   
  
_I didn't even know I WAS smiling!!_ She let it be. This was just too good to ever be allowed to stop. They ate in silence, the murmurs of conversation from other tables contrasting with Vivaldi's chamber music in the background. Fan Waal finished first, then sat back and watched her eat, taking sips from his whipped cream-topped mug of hot Dutch chocolate periodically.   
  
"One of your big problems with relationships," he began again, "is that you're too busy holding onto the folks in the past to pay attention to who's left in the now. You've gotta let all that go and move on. It's self-destructive to obsess about the lost, and they'll be really mad when you find them again after having spent your life pining over what you couldn't help."   
  
_Great. I'm taking love advice from a guy with whipped cream on his nose_. She did not reply aloud; speaking would distract from croissant time.   
  
"As I'd said earlier, you're the one attracting the stares in here, even with the Ice Queen facade you've got going on, which __is downright creepy by the way. You're a knockout and don't even know it, and you don't flaunt it, and guys are drawn to that. You're not gonna get away from that unless you add some facial scars and some missing limbs, and even then there'll be guys into _that_, too."   
  
"Not after I get done fattening up on this," she said, indicating breakfast with her fork.   
  
"Nah, a few croissants won't make you balloon." He said it so confidently that it might as well have been a law of the universe.   
  
"'I pray you, sir, is it your will to make a stale of me amongst these mates?'" she asked, quoting Katharina from Shakespeare's __Taming of the Shrew.   
  
To her amazement, he responded: "'Mates, maid! How mean you that? No mates for you, unless you were of gentler, milder mould.' Hortensio was one of my favorite characters in the play. _Taming of the Shrew_, Act 1, scene 1."   
  
"How did you know that?"   
  
"I told you, all the benefits of a classical education. One of my bros was a Shakespeare junkie, but he liked _Titus Andronicus_ best." Fan Waal's face seemed to cloud over for a moment as his thoughts drifted back, then he recovered. "I've got quotes and lines from a thousand classics in my head, and they sneak up every so often."   
  
"You know, I think you may be the maddest person I've ever met," she said it with a hint of teasing, the same tone she would take with Natalie Dolvich on occasion.   
  
"I have it!" he exclaimed, face alighting with glee. "A man talking sense to himself is no madder than a man talking nonsense not to himself!"   
  
Sylvie's eyebrow quirked up again. "Or just as mad."   
  
Fan Waal nodded his head in satisfaction. "Or just as mad."   
  
"And you do both."   
  
"So there I am."   
  
"Stark raving sane. Why?"   
  
Fan Waal blinked. "Exactly."   
  
"Exactly what?"   
  
"Exactly why."   
  
"Exactly why what?"   
  
"What?" His face was a mask of innocence.   
  
"_Why? _" This was beginning to make her head hurt again. "This is going nowhere."   
  
"Exactly." That ended the _Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead_ moment, and he chuckled.   
  
She was about to comment on how he seemed to think he'd gotten her goat, but a bell rang out its tune and a voice called out for dessert to be served. "Oh, _sweet_!" exclaimed fan Waal as he saw it.   
  
"What is it?"   
  
"_Gallete des rois_. It's usually done on the 6th of January, but they fucked it up then, so this is the repeat. I thought I'd missed it."   
  
"Why the 6th?"   
  
"Epiphany. It's a Catholic thing in France, really feudal-like. They put a little porcelein doll in the pastry, then pass out the pieces, and whoever finds the doll in their piece is the 'King' or 'Queen'. I'll bet you get it, though."   
  
"Why?"   
  
"'Cause you deserve it."   
  
"I still think you're flirting with me, Rigel fan Waal."   
  
His voice went serious. "Don't think; _know_." He raised the mug to his lips again, sipped, then dug out his wallet. He flipped it open and withdrew a picture, tossing it across the table. "That's her."   
  
Sylvie picked up the picture, and looked at the smiling blonde woman in it, feeling something akin to jealousy that there were two people who could afford the luxury of smiles and she could not. "She's pretty."   
  
"Yeah. Candace ain't bad a catch for the youngest son who was never meant for nothing." He took the picture from her when she passed it back.   
  
Sylvie gave off a noise that was almost a snort. "Last I checked, you sleep in a five-star hotel, run your own contract business, and can afford to do as you please in Amman, including eat like a pig in a high-class restaurant no one knows about that has a star view. 'And if not able to please himself in the arrangement, he has at least great pleasure in the power of choice. I do not know any body who seems more to enjoy the power of doing what he likes than Mr. Darcy.'" She resisted to urge to add fan Waal's name in for Mr. Darcy's from _Pride and Prejudice_.   
  
And then he amazed her again. "'He likes to have his way very well, but so we all do. It is only that he has better means of having it than many others, because he is rich, and many others are poor. I speak feelingly. A younger son, you know, must be inured to self-denial and dependence.'"   
  
Sylvie played along, her Elizabeth Bennet to his Colonel Fitzwilliam. "'In my opinion, the younger son of an Earl can know very little of either. Now, seriously, what have _you_ ever known of self-denial and dependence? When have you been prevented by want of money from going whereever _you_ chose, or procuring any thing you had a fancy for?'"   
  
He smiled and extended a long tongue, licking the whipped cream from the tip of his nose with his tongue before responding. "'These are home questions---and perhaps I cannot say that I have experienced many hardships of that nature. But in matters of greater weight, I may suffer from the want of money. Younger sons cannot marry where they like.'"   
  
"'And pray, what is the usual price of an Earl's younger son? Unless the elder brother is very sickly, I suppose you would not ask above fifty thousand pounds.'"   
  
"Ooo," he said, breaking the _Pride and Prejudice_ little drama they were doing. "Now you're shortchanging me. I'd expect at _least_ an even million for someone as cool as me."   
  
Sylvie almost laughed. They each got a piece of the __gallete des rois, which tasted like sweetened almonds. Sure enough, the porcelain figurine was in Sylvie's piece.   
  
"Told you so!!" crowed fan Waal, jumping up to stand on his chair and point it out to everyone else. "YO!! The Queen's dining with __me, y'all!!! __Who's da man??"   
  
The applause was thunderous in the dome, and there was a trumpet fanfare played, and cheering restaurant staff. Fan Waal bowed, gesturing towards a mortified Sylvie, who had just become irrevocably the center of attention. She hid her blush behind her napkin. This was the most she had blushed in years, but the strange little man was more capable of dragging emotion out of her than anything ever had been. _It's not FAIR how he can do this to me! He's a ZEON!! And a killer! I should be shooting him, not eating breakfast with him! What the hell is WRONG with me? _  
  
He flopped down in his chair again. "Whew! I love it when I'm right, and I always am!"   
  
"You've certainly put forth a lot of effort into entertaining a Federation officer," she commented quietly.   
  
He frowned and rapped a forefinger on the tabletop. "Why're you putting up barriers again? This has nothing to do with Federation or Zeon or any of that horseshit. This about a guy who saw a lady have a real bad time in a town she doesn't live in, and decided to do something about it. This is about you, and me, and here, not any of the rest of that rubbish. Yeah, it's smarmy drippy sissy stuff, but that's how it is. I don't give a damn if you're a Venusian vampire vixen from the Eighth Dimension or something; I did this because I wanted to and I could. It's cost me an arm and a leg, but I was happy to oblige, so please don't make me think my generosity only went into making you think I wanted something other than your company and your conversation. __I'm the unabashed slut at this table, not you."   
  
"I'll pay you back for---"   
  
He brushed a hand through the air. "Doubt __that. Those're hundred credit a pop croissants, and Federation troopers don't get rich unless they're the graft type."   
  
Her eyes almost bugged out of her head. _I ate over a THOUSAND credits worth of croissants?? _"Then how much was the butter?"   
  
His eyes twinkled in amusement, and he spread his hands out as though encompassing the universe. "More than you can __begin to imagine. Candace'll run my balls up a flagpole if she finds out I spent this much dough on a trip where I was looking for a contract to fill, but if you keep it a secret I won't ask for sex as a reward."   
  
She crossed her arms and contemplated how to murder him with justification. "You're incorrigible."   
  
"Then quit encouraging me." He stood up, placing his napkin on the table. "Gotta whiz. Be right back."   
  
She watched him go, sauntering through the restaurant like he owned the place. He had left his wallet on the table in front of her. Eyes wary, she picked it up and opened it, thumbing through it. A Class-VI transport operator's license (registered to Granada), the picture of Candace, a credit card, a black-and-white photo of fan Waal and what looked like two taller, older Zeon soldiers, all in uniform (background too grainy to identify, but there looked like a metropolis in the background that could be Zuum City on Side 3), a VIP pass to "Hooters" in Von Braun (several visits' worth of stamps on it), and a couple of paper receipts (from the Waldorf-Stellaria Hotel, Amman City, and a monorail pass that would expire in two days). Nothing out of the ordinary except for the lack of clutter. She replaced the wallet precisely where it had been, questions still unanswered, but no evidence to support any conclusion other than that he might be telling the complete truth. All she had to go on was her NewType intuition to say otherwise.   
  
She looked at the black-and-white photo again. The picture quality stank, but if those two were his brothers, they must have all had different fathers, because the differences between them were noticible even in the wretched photo. She presumed they must have been flightmates or MS team members. She could not distinguish their ranks. Unsatisfied, she replaced the photo in the wallet.   
  
At any rate, she would have to go back to Von Braun in failure. The chain had been broken when fan Waal had killed Kehl, even in self-defense. The trail was colder than Kehl's body now, and the buyer a thousand A.U.s from Amman, unless one of the other two cell members had more information than they were letting on. She would recommend that Natalie bring them in for chemical interrogation as soon as she got back. Deals made with ISS did not immunize them from the Titans, and the chemicals the Titans used didn't have any permanent, debilitating effects anyway (the branch that specialized on physical torture however, was certainly far more sadistic). She also made a mental note to run the name 'Rigel fan Waal' through the database, along with Conrad Kehl's, to see what turned up when they were compared. Their similarities in physical structure were too big a hint to think it was coincidence.   
  
She was so deep in thought, musing over a million questions, that fan Waal startled her when he returned, thudding back into his chair and slouching. "Sorry. Didn't mean to freak you out there."   
  
"It-it's nothing."   
  
He smiled. "I've taken the liberty of having 'Starviews' wrap up a shitload of those croissants, as well as a few other things from the house for you. I presume you're returning to Von Braun, yes?"   
  
"What time is it?"   
  
"1330 hours."   
  
Sylvie blanched. "WHAT? I've got a mono to catch!!"   
  
"Mono? You don't want that, it sucks. Laid up in bed for two weeks, God knows _what_ running out of your---"   
  
"A _monorail_, you ninny! It leaves in fifteen minutes!"   
  
He jumped to his feet. "Why didn't you say so? I'll get you there, no problem. " He grabbed his wallet and shoved it into a rear pocket. "The bill's already paid, so grab your scarf and mittens and let's boogie!"   
  
Before she could react, he snagged her hand in one of his and started moving. She caught up with him easily, but did not turn her hand loose or crush his in her grip. They blew past Girard, fan Waal snaring the bag he was carrying before he could even turn around.   
  
"Later, Girard!!" called back fan Waal. "Keep my table spotless, you hear? _Spotless! _"   
  
Girard watched the pair leaving at breakneck speed, then glanced at the table. "No tip, Mr. fan Waal?"   
  
The brash tenor called back: "_Here's a tip for ya: never pet a burning dog!_"   
  
As they flew out of the doorway, Sylvie remarked, "At least I don't have to worry about not being famous in Amman before I die."   
  
"Look at it from _my_ point of view," said fan Waal with a smirk, "even if I knew a thousand places like this, I'll never be as famous as the 'Valkyrie of Revo'.   
  
  
  
"We're in a hurry, so I hope you don't mind if I drive a little differently this time," fan Waal commented as they climbed into the black hovercar he had brought her here in. "I feel the need; the __need for __speed!"   
  
"Go for it." He had been completely economical about his driving en route to 'Starviews'. She figured his idea of "speed" was five kph above Amman's limit.   
  
The car started without a hitch, and as he pulled into traffic, he glanced over at her. "You might wanna buckle up. This could get. . .hairy."   
  
She took his advice, as he started swerving in and out of traffic, lane by lane, their speed increasing exponentially. "Be careful, please."   
  
"I'm _always_ careful, as long as everyone gets out of _my way_!" He laughed aloud and hit the gas, flicking on the disc player. "Jump, Jive and Wail" exploded over the speakers, Brian Setzer's voice matching the tempo perfectly.   
  
And for the next ten minutes and five levels down, Sylvie Gressier saw Death seven times. She almost had a heart attack when he tilted the hovercar on its flank and buzzed between two cargo haulers that had been occupying both lanes neck-and-neck. The demon who was her driver giggled like a child the entire time, while she became married to the "oh shit" handle above the door.   
  
"_Slow down_!" she yelled, eyes closing. She had piloted mobile suits for a good portion of her life, but rarely ever took chances like this even in the heat of combat, believing such maneuvers to be wasteful and inherently dangerous. Rigel fan Waal had no such compunctions. "You're going to destroy your car!!"   
  
"Don't worry!!" he yelled back. "It's a __rental!!" His fighter pilot reflexes did not fail them.   
  
  
  
"Got you here with five to spare! They oughtta give me a __medal for being this cool!" he chortled as he opened the passenger-side door and helped a dazed Sylvie out of the car. The monorail station was busy this time of day, and there were people everywhere. "C'mon, I'll walk you to your gate."   
  
"You don't have to."   
  
"Course I do! You've been nice to me, and I'm going to hate to see you leave." They walked through the station in relative silence, fan Waal following Sylvie until they reached platform Seven's entryway. "Is this it?"   
  
"Yes," she replied quietly. She was actually going to miss this wretched little rich man with a big mouth and weird sensibilities. "Thank you. For everything."   
  
"_Pssh_. No sweat, really. Sorry you had to get your ass kicked in Amman, but I hope you don't leave hating this place as much as I do. Granada's sooo much more fun. Look me up if you're ever there." His smile had faded a bit.   
  
A voice on the intercom spoke: RIDE NUMBER 702 TO VON BRAUN, DEPARTING GATE SEVEN IN TWO MINUTES. ALL PASSENGERS, PLEASE REPORT TO GATE SEVEN FOR RIDE NUMBER 702 TO VON BRAUN.   
  
Fan Waal glared up at the ceiling. "Party poopers." He held out a hand. "I guess this is goodbye after all."   
  
Sylvie could not help but smile as he tried to put on a brave face in the midst of obvious disappointment, but it was a very tiny smile. "We'll always have Paris. Take care of yourself, Rigel fan Waal, madman for hire." And she shook his hand.   
  
Once again managing to surprise her, tears began pouring from fan Waal's eyes. "You, too, Sylvie Gressier, 'Valkyrie of Revo'. Remember what I told you, too. No one's sure what's lies beyond these shores, so play on the beach until the surf takes you away, and if you find someone worth loving again, make him sing of your love forever. You're more special than ten of someone like me, and don't you _ever doubt that_, or you'll make a liar outta me."   
  
Honestly touched, she leaned over (and down) and gave him a kiss on the cheek, then let his hand go and let the screams fade from her mind again. "Goodbye, Rigel. Perhaps our paths will cross again."   
  
Fan Waal was stunned speechless. Then, he clapped a hand to his face where she'd kissed him, gasping for breath. Then he fell to his knees, a stupid grin on his face, and rolled onto his back, pounding on his heart. "Die now, fan Waal!!" he wailed aloud, wriggling on his back in front of dozens of people. "For the Queen hath bestowed upon thee the kiss of heaven, and thou art at thy happiest moment!!" Then he made a gagging sound and stuck his arms and legs straight into the air, tongue lolling out of his mouth but unable to hide the smile.   
  
She grimaced, then waved a hand at his prone form. "You're still a frog, sorry."   
  
He opened an eye and looked up at her. "Ribbit?"   
  
"You've got the picture now. Goodbye." With that, she turned and walked under the gateway to board, only looking back once as the monorail pulled away from the station. "RIGEL!! Where are my BULLETS?!"   
  
"_In the bottom of your purse_," he called back, waving, "_where no one can find ANYTHING!! Safe trip, Sylvie!! _"   
  
She cursed him a dozen times, not meaning any of them, as the train sped up and he finally disappeared. He was still lying there, waving, as she left Amman and headed for home.   
  
  
  
When the monorail had finally left view, Rigel fan Waal spun on his butt into a sitting position, then stood, brushing moon dust off of his pants. Reaching into one of his hip pockets, he removed a cell phone from it, then mashed a set of numbers and started walking out of the station.   
  
The other end rang twice, then picked up: "__Hello? " spoke a gravelly voice.   
  
"Go to UHF secure."   
  
A moment passed. Then: "_Done, baby. How can I help you? _"   
  
"That cover you planted in the system'd better work out against the toughest scrutiny, De-Frag, or you're going one-way to Deimos on a mass driver," declared fan Waal ardently.   
  
"_Relax, 'Killing Star'. Your ID's totally legit. I've got so much material in the system that a hundred Feddie technomonkeys couldn't pick their way through it with a fucking road map. As far as they'll ever know, you're Rigel fan Waal, all the way. Even your DNA matches square. _"   
  
"Better be sure, cause I'll smoke you before they ever find me. It has to stand up to Titans, too."   
  
"_It's made in the shade, bad man. The Titans are even less skilled with such matters. You got your money's worth. _"   
  
Fan Waal slammed the door shut on the car. "Cool as shit, bro. Listen, Kehl fucked up the drop and I had to expend him. There's a reason he was cycled out at New Koenigsberg, and that was the fact that he was dumb. The Von Braun cell's useless now, they're burned. Get the list from the Granada site, then tell the Anaheim guy that we're still in business, but I want a face-to-face instead of the happy horseshit. I've got people waiting on Terra for this stuff, and I've already been here too long."   
  
"_Got it. You take care of that bimbo you scooped off the alley?_"   
  
"That 'bimbo' was the 'Valkyrie of Revo', numbnuts. I showed her sights to dazzle the mind and spirit, and she's gone without a lead or a clue, but she might have a suspicion, so we're about to test your skills. The best way to keep a secret is to convince who's looking that they already know the answer."   
  
"_Spoken like the 'Lion' himself._"   
  
"Nope. That's a Reinhardt if there ever was one."   
  
"_You need anything else, ace, or are we gonna discuss the merits of the dead and the incarcerated?_"   
  
"Naw. I'm on my way back to Granada tonight. Talk to you in a week."   
  
_"Enjoy yourself, headbanger. Speak with you later." _  
  
"Yeah." Antares de la Somme pressed the OFF button, then peeled into traffic. It was good to be the Man. The player was still belting out tunes (Rolling Stones this time), and he tilted his head back and sang along with it. _"Pleased to me~et you---hope you've guessed my~y na~me!!" _  
  
**Amman - Von Braun line, Luna, Sol System   
January 20, 0085 **  
  
Hunches were what made all investigations come to conclusions, once evidence had been found to support the hunches. There was a part of Sylvie Gressier that wanted to trust that Rigel fan Waal was what he said he was, but she could not shake the feeling that something was missing from all this. She did not want to have to poke around in his business, especially if her hunch was wrong, because then it would stain what they'd managed to build together. But it had been a long time since Sylvie had trusted anyone, even Natalie. She was torn in two over this predicament, and saw little way out that would not be destructive. For once, these were memories she wanted to keep.   
  
Then the solution presented itself to her, in the form of a phone number. She dug around in her handbag (and around the pistol), and grabbed her cell phone. There was precious little time before the monorail left Amman's cellular range. She dialed it hurriedly, then tapped her foot impatiently while it rang. "Come on, come on."   
  
It picked up on the fifth ring. "_Neville_," spoke the voice, patrician and British in accent and tone.   
  
"Mr. Neville. I was told you'd be expecting me."   
  
_"Perhaps. Are you the mutual acquaintance of a mutual acquaintance?" _  
  
"Yes. I'm done in Amman and am heading back to Von Braun, but I was wondering if I could ask you a question."   
  
The voice on the other end chuckled. _"By all means, but please bear in mind that I am a former Zeon and will not say anything that may incriminate me to whatever legal authority you represent without being made aware of my rights." _  
  
"Agreed, as long as you're completely honest with me. "   
  
_"'I should be wise; for honesty's a fool and loses that it works for.'"_   
  
_What is it with weird men and Shakespeare? Now it's 'Othello' I'm being quoted!_ "Listen, do you know a man named Rigel fan Waal?"   
  
There was silence long enough that for a moment, Sylvie thought they'd been cut off. Then: _"I know the name, but I've never formally met him. Freighter chappie, very good. Very expensive, too. Anaheim's hired him once or twice to do shipments, on a per contract basis. Been around the site a few times, talking to the bigwigs. Strange thing is, I know I've seen him before, but I can't for the life of me place _where__."   
  
"Please, Mr. Neville. He was a Zeon also. Could you have known him from then?"   
  
Silence again. _"Perhaps. Remembering those days grows more difficult each year. I think maybe, but he would not have been stationed where I was. I was Mobile Assault, and if I'm not losing my bloody gourd, I'd say he was Solomon-bound at the start of it all, which meant he was Space Assault. Don't swear me to it, but I'd say that's close to right." _  
  
Sylvie relaxed, a ton of weight removing itself from her shoulders. "You're a jewel, Mr. Neville." She decided that running a check was no longer necessary; she was content that he'd told her the truth.   
  
Static began crackling on the line. _"It's Thomas, actually. 'Now to scrape the serpent's tongue, we will make amends, ere long: else the Puck a liar call.'"_   
  
"You take care, Thomas Neville, and thank you again!" __A Midsummer's Night's Dream, wandered her mind even as he spoke Puck's words.   
  
The phone cut off with a final _beep_ before she could hear his response, and she put her phone back into her bag and settled in for the trip beyond those shores, bringing back only questions as souvenirs of Amman City. Within the car, only the hissing of the rails interrupted her remembrance of a smile and the stars.   
  
_

_Finis. . ._

------------------------------------------

   
This work and all contained within are the property of Abyssal Lasombre Prod. and His Divine Shadow, with the exceptions of names trademarked by Bandai for Mobile Suit Gundam. This is no challenge to that trademark or any other Bandai product and/or copyright.   
  
Sylvie Gressier, Natalie Dolvich and Max Harper are copyrighted by Thomas E. "Zinegata" Ting, and were used with permission for this particular fanfiction.   
  
Thomas Neville is copyrighted by Joshua "Redcomet" Dziubek, and was used with permission for this particular fanfiction.


End file.
